


Wipe the Salt off of My Skin And Admit that I Got it Wrong

by Hexate (oppressa)



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cunnilingus, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Sitting, Hand Jobs, Intoxication, Married Couple, Multi, Polyamory, Porn, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Rollo and Gisla are horny all the time, Rollo is basically immoral in this but Hvitserk is a lot like him, Sexual Coercion, Table Sex, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Warning: references to rape and being turned on by rape, being used, throwback fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/Hexate
Summary: Rollo wanted something else in return for giving his support to Hvitserk and Ivar after all.
Relationships: Gisla/Hvitserk, Rollo/Gisla, Rollo/Gisla/Hvitserk, Rollo/Hvitserk
Kudos: 1





	Wipe the Salt off of My Skin And Admit that I Got it Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this is an idea I had in the middle of season five. I was sad we didn't get to see Hvitserk go back to Frankia and interact with Rollo's family but this is where my twisted mind actually goes, so.

Normandy is better than he remembers it, having been thrown in a dungeon almost as soon as they all got here before, seeking an accord with Rollo. But he had hardly known his uncle, then. This time Rollo seemed pleased to see him, keen to hear about the battles in York, understanding about why him and Ivar split from Ubbe. It's like he has been waiting for Hvitserk to think of this and come to him. Gisla's expression isn't welcoming and she obviously disapproves of her children getting closer to him, yet she doesn't protest when Rollo invites him to eat with them in their private chambers. After the meal he spends the rest of the evening playing with his cousins, thinking it strange that when he came to Paris with Ragnar's army he was around their age, having to remind himself that their games aren't as rough as the ones he would play with his brothers. When Rollo's wife claps her hands and snaps at them in Frankish they instantly stop and follow the thralls to bed, although the little girl rebelliously holds on to his hand for a moment longer.  
  


He glances up from the floor to find Gisla wrinkling her nose at him. It's the first time she has really expressed any interest in him all night. She says something to Rollo, looking at him disdainfully over her wine cup.  
  


He comes back to the table, pouring more of the blood-red drink into his own, nodding at his uncle.  
  


“What did she say?”  
  


“She asked how old you are.”  
  


As far as he's concerned the answer to that is older than Ivar than he is younger than Ubbe, older than Sigurd will ever be. He doesn't know why he tends to think of things in terms of his brothers but whatever the case, it's not her business.  
  


He sits down heavily, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, perhaps just to see her reaction. “Why?”  
  


Gisla says something else, and Rollo laughs.  
  


“She thinks you're very brave to come here, all by yourself, to ask for our help.”  
  


He frowns, suddenly ill at ease. “You're my uncle. You said I could. Not that I am not grateful...”  
  


Rollo shrugs, interrupting him. “These are still my wife's people. I have to consider her wishes.”  
  


He couldn't say what about that makes him swallow, push his cup away, but it does. “What does that mean?”  
  


Gisla laughs this time, not bothering to hide the nastiness in it. He thinks she understands more of their language than she admits.  
  


His uncle gets up – by Odin he's so fucking tall, and broad, as big as Bjorn is, he's sure – and moves to his side of the dining table, laying his hands on his shoulders and squeezing them hard. It seems like a friendly enough gesture, yet it heightens his nerves, further unsettled by the way Gisla is smirking at him. At least it prepares him in some regard for what Rollo says, bending to speak into his left ear.  
  


“If you'd like to take away a large part of my army to attack Lagertha and Bjorn, we'd require something more from you.”  
  


It's obvious what, with his uncle's fingers sliding down the side of his neck to play with his pendant and his wife watching with her dark eyes as if he were already something they owned.  
  


“And if I say no?” He stutters over it, painfully aware he has next to no choice.  
  


Rollo's thumb slowly rubs over the ridge of his spine, underneath his hair. “Then you go back to your brother and King Harald with nothing to show for this.”  
  


His back stiffens as he racks his brain for something, anything else he has to offer, and his mind is absolutely blank.  
  


“But I understand, by all means, you need to think about it. Can you defeat them on your own?”  
  


They would almost definitely lose another battle if he fails to secure the reinforcements, unless Ivar came up with something astonishing in their place, the pitying look in his eyes if he returns without them would be too much to bear. So he tries to take the initiative, to show them he's not afraid, certainly not inexperienced.  
  


“What is it, you want me to kneel for her?” He pushes out his chair in a more confident manner than he feels, standing up to lock eyes with his aunt.  
  


Rollo, though, shakes his head. “We want you on the table, Hvitserk.”  
  


His uncle takes him by the scruff of the neck, pushing him forward on it, sending the plates and unfinished dishes clattering. Even as his cheek lands against the wood, he's still wondering if, half-hoping, this is a joke. He has no weapons, if they would help him anyway, he knows he's no match for his uncle's strength.  
  


Rollo holds him with one hand while she rises from her seat and comes over, slowly, her elegant jewelled fingers drifting against the edge of the table he's pinned on, waiting for her to join her husband in whatever they have planned. He loses sight of her behind him for a moment, then she's leaning over him, her hair falling over his face, her elbow pressed across his neck. Her hand touches his arse, stroking it provocatively, before grabbing it and slapping hard enough to make him choke. He only manages not to call her a bitch as Rollo would probably kill him, and certainly refuse to give him and Ivar what he came here for.  
  


The same delicate fingers burrow insistently under the cord fastening his trousers, dragging them down to his knees, then all the way off his ankles. Rollo is shoving him up, into position; he doesn't resist it because some of him is just stunned, unable to believe this is happening. It occurs to him that Rollo must not see his father in him at all, even though he knows him the most of his sons aside from Bjorn. He is too much like his slender, soft-haired mother was, he has hardly anything of Ragnar to make him check himself.  
  


The next thing he feels is the coldness of her rings on his skin, her thumbs pulling him apart and then something wet, rubbing right _there_ , her tongue on him. He tries to get up, but Rollo holds him firmly in place for her, telling him it's in his best interests to let her do it. He squeezes his eyes shut on the tears of humiliation threatening to spill, his open palm slamming down on the table, then clenching into a fist. Gisla licks at him until he goes limp, his resolve loosening along with his body, trying not to groan at how it feels, how his resistance to this is ebbing away. When he's relaxed enough her finger slips inside of him, just one for a while, testing his boundaries, then another, opening him up. His uncle is still crushing him but he starts, despite himself, to enjoy it, shifting against the table to see if he can get some kind of friction on his cock, since they're not going to give it to him, at least not yet, he understands that much.  
  


He almost gets lost in that distracting, repetitive motion, forgetting where he is, brought back to himself before too long as Gisla takes her fingers out and smacks him again.  
  


They talk over him in Frankish and he can't follow it, he only recognises one word, that she's calling him a _boy_. Part of him agrees, in the sense that he should never have been so naïve as to trust his uncle. Bjorn would call him a fool for blindly taking him at his word. And he knows what's coming. He can hear Rollo's belt being undone, some low pleasured sounds as she handles him.  
  


“Are you ready now, nephew?”  
  


“Yes.” He spits out, curling his hands around the edge, digging his nails in underneath where they can't see.  
  


He's not, he yells against the table at the first thrust, grunting, moaning, calling out to Odin.  
  


“Hvitserk.” Rollo says, somewhat disappointedly.  
  


Gisla sighs, stroking patronisingly down his arm, caressing his hips, his side, as he's given time to adjust. It's such a light, calming touch that he gasps at the roughness as Rollo grasps him by the hair and starts mounting him in earnest. Gisla walks away to the far end of the table, pours wine and watches him, being fucked on there by her husband.  
  


“Fight a little.” She says, butchering their tongue, as if it physically pains her to speak it. “You are a little Viking, are you?”  
  


If anything he goes more still, not willing to perform, letting it happen if only because he has to, and maybe because he still slightly admires his uncle for how he is, what he's gained for himself, despite the fact that everyone hates him for doing it at the expense of their whole way of life, turning his back on everything he once knew. He lies there and takes it and he doesn't scream again no matter how hard he is being thrust into, how much it feels like he's being torn apart and taken advantage of. It hurts less if he doesn't think about it, though it's impossible not to groan loudly every time Rollo pushes him forward with more force. He's so averse to giving off the impression that being rammed against an unforgiving surface is something he likes, but he can't fucking help it, and perhaps it doesn't matter, it will be over more quickly if he just submits. His cock is still stiff because it's sex and because maybe in a horrible way he is aroused by this, that they're able to take what they want from him the same as you'd take it from a terrified woman on a raid. And whatever happens, he is not going to give them that.  
  


Nevertheless, he's sickeningly glad as his uncle finishes in him. The strokes gradually slow down and he attempts to get his breath back, the tension in his arms subsiding, aching as they fall flat, he didn't know how much he was bracing them. Rollo unceremoniously turns him over by his shoulder, with his cock still hard, and he's greeted by the sight of Gisla hitching her skirts. He tries to get up one more time but she pushes him back again, clambering up on top of him and pinning his wrists to the wood, snarling something at Rollo, who laughs.  
  


“I told her you'd be easy, nephew, after that.”  
  


Gisla uses her knee bent on his neck to get his head down, crouching as he tries to imagine it's with Margrethe. Except Margrethe let him do whatever he wanted, she wouldn't be lowering herself onto him like this, and Gisla's fingers are digging into his wrists, he is utterly powerless to do anything to stop it. Her sex meets his mouth, hardly allowing him the chance to thrust his tongue in, he can barely get air into his lungs, only taste her wetness, her secretions filling his mouth, leaving traces on his face. And yet he enjoys this against himself as well, as she starts rocking on him. She smells beautiful, like there is perfume on her legs, he wants to run his nose along them, and his tongue, like Rollo must. Maybe she is beautiful, but he can't think of any Goddess like her, dark like that, perhaps only Nott, Norvi's daughter. But she wouldn't let him worship her, even releasing him and kneeling up so he can prop himself on his elbows to reach her, mouthing at her mound with his lips curled around his teeth, licking her folds apart, wherever it is that makes her shiver and growl at him. She shoves him down to come, rubbing it spitefully on his screwed-up face.  
  


Surely now he has let his uncle fuck him and pleasured his wife, it's over, but no. Her fingers are trailing up and down his legs, teasing the insides of his thighs. And shockingly or not, he wants to come. He can't touch himself though, Rollo grinningly holds his hands up above his head. Gisla presses her hand against him, making him strain against them both, grinding down at his wrists and his prick, rutting into her fist, convinced that any second she will take it away and they'll leave him like that, panting, unsatisfied.  
  


He comes fast and profusely, the degrading, depraved, perverse pleasure burning through him.  
  


Gisla smiles, wiping her hand on the table beside him, taking her husband's arm with the other.  
  


“You're welcome to take my men.” Rollo says over his shoulder, as he leads her away. “You can leave with them in the morning. On the one condition that you don't get carried away and massacre them all, including Bjorn. Remember that.”  
  


Of course, Bjorn is his favourite, no one must touch Bjorn. He nods, to mean Yes, he will remember, and Ivar will agree to that, surely, he can't exactly argue with the size of the army Rollo can provide. He'll come back to Ivar in triumph, telling him that this is all their uncle asked for, this and nothing else.


End file.
